


The Magic of Crappy Movies and Nasty Cussing at 3 am

by The Curator of The Sands (GrimRevolution)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Galaxy Garrison days, Gen, Girls taking care of girls, Mention of alcohol, Pidge | Katie Holt-centric, rated for Pidge's dirty mouth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-02-14 19:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13014120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimRevolution/pseuds/The%20Curator%20of%20The%20Sands
Summary: Sometimes, surrounded by guys, women just have to look after each other.ORTimes when women at the Galaxy Garrison questioned who Pidge Gunderson really was.





	1. turn down for what

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a conversation i had with rozie that involved women and pidge and tbh if i had been drunk i probably would have cried about the wonderful relationships women build with each other.

_Go out for the night_ , Lance said.

 _It’ll be fun,_ he said.

Pidge escaped out of the mass of bodies to slip into the one person, single bathroom the club had. Neon signs were on the walls, the light was dim, and the mirror had cracked corners and sharpie written in the edges. The only natural light was coming through a slim window on the side wall, looking out what seemed to be the open parking area behind the building. If she tried, she could probably squeeze through it and escape into the night.

Maybe.

She pulled off the long sleeve green and black flannel button up she had been wearing, tied it around her waist, and checked Matt’s glasses.

A smear was on the left lens and she wiped it off as well as she could with the loose black tank she was wearing (it was more like a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and the collar loosened, but, hey, who cared?). Sliding the mostly clean glasses back on her face, Pidge flicked the taps on the sink, wrinkled her nose as the pipes gurgled, and did her best to washed her hands without scrubbing away the black X that marked her as ‘below legal drinking age’.

There were no paper towels and the air dryer didn’t work no matter how hard she slapped the metal button so, waving her hands like she was trying to dry her nails, Pidge huffed and decided to enjoy the stifled quiet of the bathroom. Pink neon lights across the ceiling casted an almost dark fairy glow across salt and pepper tiles, a black light was mixed in somewhere, making the large, bulky letters spelling out OVER RATED glow against the rest of her dark clothing.

The door opened, the lock a flimsy little clicker that didn’t seem to actually _work_ (that was good to know) and the wood with its peeling white paint bounced off the little bit of rubber that kept the knob from putting a hole in the wall.

Pidge jumped three to four feet in the air as a woman, about her age, slammed the door behind her with a gasp and leaned against it. Her skin was dark, the same shade of garden soil after a long rain, with straightened black hair braided into a rope that hooked over her shoulder to the front.

Wide eyes met, both of them stunned speechless for a second.

“Oh my God,” the other girl whispered, her voice barely heard over the pounding above their heads, “I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t know you were—”

“ _Hey_!” Someone called out from the hallway, words slurred and scuffling shoes. “ _Alisha! I know you’re down here_!”

Pidge jerked as the girl pulled away from the door and slid behind the wall blocking the toilet from view. Narrowing her eyes, she looked over ‘Alisha’s’ white crop top, slim black trousers, and black platform heels that had glitter dotted across dark leather.

Fancier clothes than most would wear to an out of the way, desert town club outfit.

The door knob jiggled.

“Oi!” Pidge kicked the bottom of the wood with the toe of her shoe, white flakes fluttered to the floor, “It’s fucking occupied!”

“ _Is there a chick in there with you_?”

She grabbed opened the door enough that she could look the guy in the face. Dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, five o’clock shadow. He looked like a frat boy who had just realized that he wasted too much time on partying and was surfing on daddy’s money. “Don’t make me piss in a cup and _throw_ it at you,” Pidge snarled and slammed the door shut again. “Wait your turn, asshole!”

There was grumbling, but it was followed by silence. Pidge ran her hand through her hair, sticking up the ends on accident. “Hey,” she turned to the other girl, keeping her voice soft, “you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” manicured hands rubbed across tired eyes. “Thanks for that,” Alisha nodded towards the door.

“No problem,” Pidge leaned back against the sink and stared down t her worn and dusty old canvas shoes that had seen far better days. They were white, at one point—now they were stained brown by the dirt and dust of the desert and long days riding her bike. She scuffed the toe that had hit the door into the tile. “I don’t think he left yet but, uh, I could probably give you a boost up to the window?”

Alisha blinked a couple of times. Her eyes were a pretty shade of brown—the shade of rocks on the sides of cliffs that broke ships. “Window?”

“Yeah,” Pidge nodded up to the latched, skinny bit of glass. It would have been a pretty tight squeeze for anyone but not impossible.

Glancing down at her platform heels, the pristine crop top, and then back at the door, Alisha exhaled slowly, nodded once, and stood to her full height. “Let’s do it.”

She took off the shoes first and handed them over to Pidge who placed them on the edge of the sink. Alisha removed her white top, gave it over (that one was hung over the hook attached to the back of the door), revealing her slim black bandeau beneath that hugged her body a bit more.

“You’re not going to make this awkward, right?” Alisha had her arms folded over her chest.

Pidge sighed and blew her bangs out of her face (fogging up her glasses ever so slightly). “Believe me,” she said, “I have a lot more on my mind than your strapless bra, honey,” And promptly took position under the window with cupped hands.

For a moment, though, the young black woman stared at her; eyes narrowed and head tilted to the side.

“What?”

Shaking her head, Alisha stepped forward. “Nah, just thought for a second...” But then she let the words trail off and stepped into the hands. Pidge gave her enough of a (heaving, grumbling, cursing her not so strong body) boost that she could unlatch the lock and get her fingers on the wooden edge.

From there, the smaller woman pressed her hands against the wall and let her body be used as a ladder with feet pressing down on her back and shoulders as Alisha wiggled her way through the small space. Slowly, the weight was lifted off Pidge’s body until she could look up and saw legs vanish through the window.

Huffing out a breath, Alisha kneeled down on the dirt. Dust had smeared across her front, colouring black brown for the moment. The braid was a bit frazzled, but she blew the strands that had fallen in her eyes out of her face. “Okay,” she said, “um, shoes first?”

Pidge got on her toes and held up the heels.

“And the, uh, the top?”

Obeying, Pidge fetched the warm fabric and had to jump a bit so the white cloth wouldn’t drag against the dust and dirtied walls. Someone pounded on the bathroom door but she grinned, crookedly, up at Alisha. “Can’t wait for the bathroom rumours to come out of this one,” She said, pushing out her foot to flush the toilet and then reaching over to turn on the sink.

“You’re a Garrison kid, right? Communications Cadet?”

“Yeah,” a hand came up for an extra lazy salute, “Name’s Pidge Gunderson.”

“Pidge,” Alisha tested and smiled. It was bright against her dark features, and stood out against the dark of the evening outside the dim glow of the neon and black lights. “See ya at the Garrison, Pidge.”And then she was gone, running, barefoot, over the dirt field that served as a parking area.

Pidge watched her go before she turned off the sink and finally opened the door.

Frat Boy was still there and she adjusted the flannel tied around her waist before sauntering past.

“The fuck took so long?” He grumbled.

“Well,” she turned on her heel, eyes glinting in the dark of the hallway, “I just took the biggest fucking shit of my _life_ —”

The door slammed shut behind him and Pidge snickered before going up the stairs and back into the roar of the people and the crowd. She found Lance and Hunk easily standing off to the side, still at their table, still sipping their drinks. Hers was a bit watery, the ice having halfway melted.

“Where were you?” Lance yelled over the thumping and the bumping.

“Oh, well, you see,” Pidge glanced out the window and watched the moon drift out from behind a batch of clouds, “there was a dragonair in the bathroom downstairs and I wasted fifteen pokeballs trying to catch it—”

Lance was out of his seat before she had finished. Pidge managed to get the plastic straw in her mouth and sipped on her very watery soda.

Hunk sighed. “You don’t even _have_ a phone,” he muttered.

“I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.”


	2. Double Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Pidge is a thief and a troublesome transfer student

The jar of chunky peanut butter sat in the bottom drawer of Pidge Gunderson’s desk for about three weeks before it was first used. It was a plastic jar, bought at one of the dollar stores, treading the line of questionable for human consumption.  That was okay, because Pidge wasn’t planning on eating what was in the jar—she had others for that purpose in her closet.  

No, this jar of peanut butter was special and she bought it for one reason; to be an absolute asshole. 

Which explained why, when Tracy Mjuler was in her room ranting, she had been eyeing the drawer. The other girl was in a pair of loose lounge pants and a tank top—pyjamas basically—and had knocked on Pidge's door while she had been changing into her own shorts and t-shirt. Curfew as close to passing, but neither of them fully noticed. 

“—I don’t understand why he gave us a C!” Tracy said, her voice lowered by carefully tempered anger. That didn’t stop her from pacing a line through the carpet. “The math was perfect—we even got it checked by Professor Classtra! And our solar system was correct, functional, and pretty!” She flung one hand out and almost slapped the small stand holding Pidge’s book bag. 

Pretty, in Tracy, meant that it sparkled, a fact that was just fine with Pidge. Sparkly things grabbed attention and Iverson hadn’t said they couldn’t use glitter. It wasn’t like they dumped a bag of the stuff over their entire project and called it a day—each colour had been used to highlight various patterns on the planets.  

In fact, Pidge admitted that it was probably the best small scaled homemade solar system she had ever seen. But, according to Iverson’s chicken scratch hand writing, their grade was so low because their project “lacked presentation”. 

Whatever the hell that meant. They were at an academy. To go into space. Unless some extremely attractive earth savvy alien was going to judge her solar system making skills and hate glitter, the C had no merit.  

“—I wish I could just sneak into his stupid office and put glue on his stupid chair—” 

“Would you?” Pidge tilted her head to the side, focusing all of her attention on the girl in her room. The curfew passed, but neither cared to look at the time. 

Tracy frowned and stopped pacing, “would I what?” 

“If you could sneak into Iverson’s office, would you?” 

Sitting in the desk chair with a heavy sigh, Tracy leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I mean,” she said and rubbed her hand down her face, “if I could sneak in I would. But that’s...” 

“Not impossible,” Pidge shrugged. The Garrison’s security was a joke. Lance had snuck out just a couple of days ago and if Lance could do it, so could everyone else. “So... would you do it?” 

Grey-green eyes stared at the communications officer. Pidge was measured in that gaze, like Ma'at with some unfortunate soul. Tracy grinned as soon as she had found whatever she was looking for. “Of course," she said 

A C didn't really merit tearing a car apart for parts or a stink bomb in the teacher's lounge. But the peanut butter was fast and easy and would cause a change of trousers at the least. 

Iverson was also a lying, order following, garbage bag. 

("He brought it upon himself," Pidge later told the howling, Voltron Paladins, sitting down in the middle of the lounge area, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. "Our project was gorgeous." 

"Yeah," Hunk would say, wiping tears from his eyes, "if it ran for the next top model of solar systems it totally would've won.") 

Tracy hadn't even batted an eye when Pidge had pulled out the jar of peanut butter and Pidge was grateful they had been chosen as partners for the assignment. Not many people encouraged her to peanut butter an officer's seat. Or even opened it up to opportunity. 

Perhaps they shouldn't have been placed together after all.  

And so that was how Pidge found herself leading Tracy through the dark hallways of the Garrison. Neither of them had been dressed for sneaking around—Pidge with the space ships on her shorts and Tracy with the yellow ducklings on her tank top—but they worked their way slowly through the dorms and towards the administration offices. A couple of close calls with the patrolling officers had them squeezing behind trashcans or in closets where they had to be careful of the mops, brooms, and buckets. 

Sneaking to Iverson's office had become such a normal thing that Pidge almost forgot Tracy was following her. The hidden coves in the shadows were two small for two people, so they had to get creative. 

They reached the door to his office thirty minutes past curfew and Pidge checked the corners and the windows to everywhere else to make sure no one was dozing off in their chairs or on the couches. Tracy tried the door knob and shook her head. "It's locked," she said. 

As if it would be anything else. 

"Doors are boring," Pidge kept her voice soft and set the peanut butter on the floor, "give me a boost?" She pointed to the ceiling. 

"Boost...?" Tracy looked up at the odd off-white tiles. The same kind that existed in every public school. 

The kind that could be cut through, could be pushed up, could be removed.  

"Oh. Oh." Cupping her hands together, she let Pidge place one foot onto her palms and then carefully lifted the smaller student up.  

For a moment, it looked as if Pidge was just a few inches too short, and then she jumped, knocked the tile up with her hands, and caught the edge. Both students paused to listen and make sure the sound hadn't been heard, but there were no echoing footsteps down the hallway. 

There was a slab of metal on top of the wall and two low aluminum pipes just to the left. Pidge crawled carefully up and over, phantom pains in her thigh where she had knocked into both before. Dust was everywhere, curled up into bunnies, making her hands slide on the drywall, clinging stubbornly to her clothing.

With only the small bit of actually sturdy material, Pidge was forced to brace her feet against the wall, hook her elbows on the metal slab for balance, and then lift the ceiling tile to Iverson’s office. There were still marks on the edges from where her nails had dug in the last time.

The hardest part would always be climbing over and then adjusting the ceiling tiles so they closed down around her. Tracy was watching—both the hallway and the little thief—and covered her smile with one hand as Pidge managed to scramble through the makeshift hole.

The first tile slid back into its position with no other sign it had been moved except the tell-tale fingerprints in the dust.

The second one was a bit trickier, because Pidge had to lay it down on her head and line it up so when she dropped it would drop back into place. For a second, while she was moving it back, she thought she had pulled it out of place—but then the tile settled and she could breathe again.

Iverson had put a new picture and frame on the wall since she had last snuck into his office and she did her best not to knock it or the wall as she dropped. Above her, the tile set down, no sign it had ever been moved, and Pidge opened the door for Tracy.

“Do this often?” she asked the moment the door was closed and had handed over the peanut butter.

“Enough,” Pidge admitted, eyeing Iverson’s computer with contempt before turning his attention to his state of the art, Garrison gifted computer chair. It was made of leather (or fake leather, she couldn’t actually tell the difference), black, and made a pretty intimidating image in the office.

She didn’t see the look on Tracy’s face—the quiet contemplation—as she rolled the chair out from the desk. “Hand me a pen?”

A black ballpoint was placed in her hand.

“You transferred from a different school, right?”

Pidge hummed as she unscrewed the bright red lid. “Yeah, my parents thought that military school would be better.” She dragged a finger along the surface before she could help herself, and sucked the glob off. Sticky and not too chunky.

Perfect.

She didn’t want to think about how easily the lies came for her, so she thought about something else instead. Like using the pen as a knife to smear the entire jar of peanut butter across the seat of Iverson’s chair as if it was a bit of bread.  Tracy stopped talking after that and sat next to the office door, listening. They had to pause once when some footsteps crossed in front of the door, but they never stopped and Pidge went back to making sure the peanut better was as even as possible before putting the lid back on the jar. Wrapping the mess of the pen in tissues, she dropped it in the trash and then nodded towards the door.

“Let’s go before the next patrol comes,” she said.

Sneaking back to their rooms wasn’t all that hard, but the adrenaline and the giddiness of possibly getting away snuck up on them. Tracy giggled a couple of times and Pidge had to fight down a smile, but soon they were back at the dorms.

“See you tomorrow,” Tracy murmured as they reached the fork in the hallway.

“See ya.”

Once in her room, Pidge opened the window and threw the empty jar as hard as she could into the desert. She didn’t see where it landed and didn’t really care. For the other jars in her closet, however, she opened the tiles of her own room, wrapped them up in towels, and hung them from the pipes. By the time she climbed into bed, it was well past midnight and too late to sneak up on the roof.

She pushed her luck a bit too far anyway.

oOo

“ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS. THERE WILL BE A MANDATORY ROOM SEARCH IN TEN MINUTES. YOU ARE TO GET DRESSED AND STAND OUTSIDE OF YOUR DOOR. I REPEAT—”

Pidge grumbled, rolling off her mattress and reaching for the glasses she didn’t need. Half awake, she pulled on her uniform, made sure her hair wasn’t overly tangled, and stood out in the hallway with the rest of the Garrison. People muttered back and forth—it was a Saturday for cripes sake and no one wanted to be out of bed at 0500—but she just patted her cheeks so she didn’t look like a middle aged man with a hangover. Iverson was walking down the hallway, his expression thunderous, two other officers trailing behind him.

Past him, down the hallway, Tracy was peeking around the corner. Her hair was a mess, her uniform wrinkled from being thrown on the floor, and a pleased yet horrified expression on her face.

Not really caring about the officers entering her room, Pidge looked up at Iverson. “Good morning, sir,” she said, her voice still hoarse from sleep. She could hear the rummaging through her desk and someone lifting the mattress up.

Iverson grunted, glaring at her with his one good eye. She offered a bewildered blink before a yawn tore through her that was neither welcomed nor ignorable but had the commanding officer turning away anyway. They went through her closet, the drawers, her book bag, and then they were walking back through the door, shaking their heads.

“Stay out of trouble, Gunderson,” Iverson grunted, as peaceful as possible through gritted teeth, and then he turned his rage on her neighbor.

Pidge glanced back at Tracy and winked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was a trouble maker in school. i am using that personal experience to fund my writing. 
> 
> cheers darlings!

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna tell you the two things that were going on while i was writing this:
> 
> 1) i had gotten a snap chat from my girlfriend at 3am of a girl skateboarding past our apartment in high heels, a dress, a leather jacket, and smoking a joint (what a fucking mood)
> 
> 2) i got piss face drunk and cried about mimikyu the pokemon for an hour
> 
> so, yeah. i really like this idea? so i'll prob continue it when i'm feeling down 'n stuff


End file.
